She tries to be discrete but you still see her curtains twitch

when you’re walking down the street and you can feel that tell-tale itch,

then you know your nosey neighbour’s watching everything you do

for some gossip she can savour just to dish the dirt on you.

 

She’ll chinwag with her cronies when she meets them at the shop,

and there’s no use in your moaning ‘cause you know she’ll never stop.

Forget the paparazzi she’s more merciless than that,

and sometimes it gets nasty when they gather round and chat.

 

The press is regulated to restrict what they can write,

but she spreads devastation, there’s no filter on her spite,

with her vile pernicious rumours that will never go away,

more malignant than a tumour in their own destructive way.

 

Then if you call her out she says the whole thing is absurd,

and says she had her doubt but only passed on what she heard.

She’s the evil queen of gossip and she simply doesn’t care,

you want her put in lockup but you haven’t got a prayer.